‘I’m sure you did your best,’ came from Anne-Lise Høgset.
Herr Ibsen’s voice became louder and sharper, his enunciation more distinct and aggressive.
‘But the best of a young sprig who had tried his hand at writing plays, writing drama criticism, was not enough. Here was I – producer, writer, dramaturg, dogsbody – the man who was thought to be able to do everything, but who could in fact do nothing properly. Except learn.’
‘You certainly did that,’ perkily observed Froken Høgset. Ibsen turned on her a look of undisguised contempt.
‘Perhaps, my dear young lady, you will allow me the floor which you have graced for the length of this splendid meal.’ Her mouth opened and shut like a fish’s. ‘And I learnt drama, I learnt about acting and scene-painting and scene-shifting. But I also learnt about life. Here I was, in a bustling cosmopolitan, moneymaking port. I had here my Peer Gynt (definitely a West Norwegian), my Stockmann, my Pastor Manders. Here were people making money, by fair means or foul. Here were people with prosperous exteriors, lavish lifestyles, but with inner corruption. Here I learnt what it is—’ and here he seemed to look at Einar Høgset— ‘to live a lie. “Take away a man’s life-lie,” one of my characters says, “and you rob him of his happiness.” But sometimes it must be done. If I see a house which is built on rotten foundations – on crumbling earth, on sand or marshlands – I can prop it up, but only for so long. In the end I must move away and build a house on good earth. And that is what I learnt in Bergen. And what I have tried to say to the world. Because the corruption, hypocrisy, self-delusion is world-wide, part of our nineteenth-century civilisation. And the first spots of them, the symptoms of them, I saw here in Bergen forty years ago. Thank you.’
He sat down. The applause was lukewarm, not surprisingly. Suddenly he looked at Høgset and Fossli and beckoned, then got up and began walking towards the door. They managed to get on either side of him and make it look as if it had been scheduled. Some hardy souls managed to keep the applause going until he had made his way out through the doors and into the hotel foyer. He walked over to a dark corner, registered the hush from the banqueting hall, then turned fiercely on the two men, his cheeks bursting with outrage.
‘And now, will you both please tell me what you have been doing?’
Høgset went red with embarrassment or anger, Fossli shuffled.
‘Doing, Herr Ibsen?’ prevaricated the mayor.
‘You have been doing something, either separately or together. Let me tell you, since you both seem ignorant to the fact, that the Royal Suite here in the Bristol is on the corner of Markevei and Torgalmenning, and its windows look out on both thoroughfares.’ Herr Fossli found it difficult to hide his apprehension at the direction the conversation was taking. ‘So therefore I can see and do see, if Herr Fossli talks to a tramp in Markevei – a tramp whom I recognise and who was doubtless sent to Bergen by some ill-wisher – of mine, not of his. So let us assume that Herr Fossli learns that the drunk outside the hotel is claiming to be a bastard son of mine, and he scuttles back into the hotel. Why does he do that? Well, the hotel has a telephone, does it not? So he arranges a meeting with his superior, the mayor. So what happens next?’
‘Herr Fossli knows nothing of what happened next,’ said Høgset, who seemed to have misunderstood the situation so badly that he was anxious to claim all the credit.
‘No doubt. You are a man who likes responsibility, I can see that. So you, on your own responsibility, arrange, via one of your underlings, a meeting with one of the town’s tramps. And – what? – you get him to agree to get this supposed son of mine away from the town centre until I am safely out of the way and cannot be embarrassed while I am this fine town’s guest. An excellent plan. You reward him in advance and – what? What else did you agree, or suggest?’
Like his daughter, Høgset opened and shut his mouth, suddenly understanding that things were not going his way.
‘Did you tell him that it wouldn’t worry you if an accident were to happen? That you would make sure that no harm would come to him, if that were the outcome of the night’s work? Or did you go still further, and hint that an additional sum would be paid if that was the result of the evening rendezvous? And were you then aiming to present yourself to me as the man who, after an unfortunate accident, had hushed things up in an efficient and sympathetic manner so that there would be no unpleasant publicity for myself, on this auspicious anniversary?’
‘Nothing of the s—’ began Høgset.
‘Are you, in fact, the sort of man who cultivates important people, marries into money and power, does the rich people’s dirty work and reaps the rewards? I think so. And I think Herr Fossli has been dragged unwittingly along with your plans. I can do nothing. I have not an atom of proof. But you will gain nothing in prestige or power from what you have done. I feel no gratitude, only disgust. I trust I shall never see either of you again. I require no party to see me off in the morning. Goodbye.’
He turned and walked towards the stairs. Fossli, unable to look at Høgset, himself walked swiftly to the door. When he had reached it he paused for a moment to look back. Høgset was disappearing through the door to the banqueting hall, no doubt to put a brave face on the Great Man’s snub to the people of Bergen. But, looking up, Fossli saw the figure of the Great Man himself, tightly buttoned still in his evening dress, going up the fine, broad staircase. He thought about the five kroner Ibsen had given his son, and still more about the five kroner he had given the boy’s mother, and he thought that no one in his audience, not even Mayor Høgset, was hugging to his breast a more tawdry life-lie than the great dramatist himself.
Then he turned and went out into the darkened streets of the town.
Author’s Note: Quite a lot in this story is true, truish or conceivable, but not the plot. Hans Jacob Henriksen died ten years after his father in 1916, after a life filled with alcohol, wives, reading and the violin.
THE WOMAN FROM MARLOW
Margaret Yorke
It was cold in the small church. Patrick wondered why Lance had suggested it for their meeting; why not a pub, where it would be warm? However, always curious, he took a descriptive pamphlet from a rack near the door, put his payment in the box provided, and consulted it as he wandered round. Building it was a remarkable achievement on the part of its Catholic-convert founder, subsequently endorsed by the addition of a modern extension to cater for the growing congregation. In the present godless age, this was impressive.
The door opened, and Lancelot Scott, eminent historian and former colleague of Patrick’s at St Mark’s College, Oxford, entered. He was a tall, angular man with snow-white curly hair cut very short. He appeared frequently on television and in radio debates, giving firm opinions on a wide range of subjects.
‘Ha, Patrick,’ he said. ‘You found this place.’
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said Patrick drily. ‘But why here?’
‘I thought it would interest you if you were early,’ said Lancelot. Patrick was known for his extreme punctuality.
‘It does,’ said Patrick.
‘Well, you can finish reading about it later,’ said Lancelot. ‘Sit down and listen to what I have to tell you. It’s quiet here, and we won’t be overheard.’
‘Unless another sightseer or some worthy soul who tends the church appears.’
Lancelot ignored this.
‘I have a goddaughter, Amy, whose mother died recently,’ he said. ‘She had been suffering from dementia and it was extremely sad, as these cases are. I went to the funeral, of course, to support Amy.’ He coughed, then added, ‘I was very fond of Louise – her mother.’
‘And the father?’ asked Patrick, when Lance did not immediately continue his tale.
‘Brian ran a family business. Biscuits. They were bought out by a bigger company years ago – did very well out of it – lovely house in the Cotswolds. They travelled a lot after that – had a house in Provence – and Brian did the country things, magist
rate and so on. He owned a racehorse for a while.’
‘A happy life?’
Lancelot shrugged, or was it more of a shiver? Patrick glanced at him sharply. Lancelot was not looking at him but staring ahead at the Pugin altar.
‘It seemed so. Everyone thought them the ideal couple. Louise was a wonderful cook and hostess. Beautiful.’ Lancelot’s long, thin face seemed to become even longer and thinner as he spoke. ‘Two children – a son, Hugh, and Amy. Hugh is a city broker.’
‘And Amy?’
‘Married to a farmer. Nice chap. Four children,’ said Lancelot, and was it envy in his voice?
A wave of fellow feeling swept over Patrick. They were both bachelors, but not from choice. Patrick had always suspected that Lancelot had been carrying a torch for some woman – was it this Louise? – for much of his life. They had both buried themselves in academic life, with occasional emotional flurries when bold enough to pursue them. Patrick banished thoughts of Elizabeth, who was still alive and well. And, he earnestly hoped, happy.
‘It seems that a few weeks before Louise died, Brian imported a woman into the house to look after her,’ Lancelot continued. ‘He said she was a school friend of Louise’s, now a widow and lonely, and that they had all met socially when they were younger but had rather lost touch.’
‘How had they resumed touch now?’
‘That’s what’s concerned Amy,’ said Lancelot. ‘She didn’t think this woman – her unlikely name is Marigold – was at school with Louise and she didn’t think the two were friends. She was so worried that she rang me about it. She thinks Brian found Marigold on an Internet dateline.’ As he uttered the words, Lancelot really did shudder. ‘Brian was under a lot of strain. He has always been an impatient man, and it was difficult for him to cope with the changes in Louise, but after Marigold moved in he sacked the carer Amy had found only a few weeks earlier, saying it was better for Louise to have someone she knew. Louise was past knowing anyone by then, though she was always gentle and patient.’
Each time Lancelot had been to see her during her illness, she had always smiled, been warm and friendly, clearly knew he was someone she liked, but not who he was. The real Louise had been lost.
‘Amy thought her mother was afraid of Marigold. She’d seen Louise shrink away from her when Marigold didn’t realise that Amy was coming into the room,’ he said.
‘Amy lives near them?’
‘About twenty miles away. She often went over and she offered to have Louise to live with them but Brian wouldn’t agree. Said she liked her home and her familiar things. After Amy told me all this, I went to see Louise,’ said Lancelot. ‘I wanted to meet this Marigold. I didn’t announce myself. I knew Louise never went anywhere unless Amy took her out. If I’d rung up, Brian might have tried to put me off – he’d say Louise was too tired for visitors or some other excuse.’ He paused, still not looking at Patrick, before going on. ‘I went one afternoon. I suppose I’d subconsciously planned what in fact I did, though I told myself I intended to ring the doorbell and wait to be admitted, but I knew if Louise was there on her own she might not answer.’
‘You didn’t ring? You slunk in?’
‘Yes. Though Brian’s car was outside the house, so he was around. The front door was locked but the back door was open. Louise spent the day in the small sitting room; I could hear the television on as I went past the door towards the front of the house. They weren’t even upstairs. They were in the drawing room on the sofa. The door was half open. Anyone might have found them.’
‘That was part of it, part of the thrill,’ said Patrick, almost to himself.
‘What?’
‘The risk. But never mind. Go on,’ said Patrick.
‘I didn’t confront them, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ said Lancelot. He had felt physically sick as he retreated into the passage. ‘If I’d looked in through the window I wouldn’t have seen them, because of how the sofa was placed. Amy has a key to the house but she wouldn’t have come unexpectedly then because she’d have been collecting her children from school. I went out again – slunk out – and drove away. Half an hour later I telephoned and said, very calmly, that I was passing and might I call in. Brian didn’t sound too pleased but he agreed. He said Louise had deteriorated since my last visit and not to expect much from her. He spoke so coldly about her.’
Patrick nodded, though Lancelot, reliving the moment, did not notice.
‘I wanted to see her face,’ he said. ‘That woman’s. I wanted to be able to recognise her.’
‘So what is she like?’
‘She’s very ugly,’ said Lancelot. ‘About six feet tall, with hair dyed a curious colour, sort of orange. Almost marigold, like her name, if it is her name. And dirty. She looked unwashed. Brian was looking bright and perky.’
‘Fresh from the shower?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, I expect so.’
‘Christ,’ said Patrick.
‘Considering where we are, that’s an appropriate comment,’ said Lancelot.
‘What happened next?’
‘We had tea. We had it in Louise’s sitting room. Scones and jam. Marigold poured. Brian proudly said that she’d made the scones, explaining that Marigold had been so fond of Louise at school, and was delighted to help out at a sad time in her own life. She looked so smug, Patrick. She’s a dreadful woman. I would have taken against her even if I hadn’t seen what I did.’ And Louise had looked frightened. Her eyes had sought his in a way that broke his heart; on earlier visits, as her condition deteriorated, she had sometimes seemed bewildered, but not scared.
‘Under the circumstances, it would be understandable, however regrettable, if Brian had a mistress tucked away somewhere,’ said Patrick. ‘But not there, not in their house. Like Lady Macbeth,’ he added.
‘But it was in their house – the Macbeths,’ said Lancelot.
‘You’re not thinking she – or they – killed Louise, are you?’ Was this why Lancelot had wanted to see him so urgently?
‘No. At least, I don’t think so,’ said Lancelot. ‘Louise caught a cold and it developed into pneumonia. She had a nasty cough the day I was there. She died at home, but by then there were proper carers looking after her. Amy insisted and Hugh supported her. I rang her straight away and said that Marigold seemed to be a thoroughly unpleasant woman and not fit to be near Louise. They had a showdown with their father and made him send her packing.’
‘Did you tell Amy what you’d seen?’
‘I couldn’t. But she knew. They paraded it, touching one another, even in front of me. Marigold left, weeping, saying Brian needed her, Amy said.’
‘But what now? I’m so sorry, Lance, it’s a dreadful tale, but it’s over, isn’t it?’
‘No. Either Marigold has stolen, or Brian has given her, two rings, some pearls, various other brooches and things and a small Boudin painting. I noticed it was missing when I went there that day. It hung on the wall near Louise’s chair. There was a calendar hanging in its place.’
‘A Boudin?’
‘Yes. A lovely little seascape. She’d inherited it from an aunt. Brian said Louise probably lost the bits of jewellery. Said she’d got so vague she might have thrown them away with the rubbish. But she wouldn’t have thrown the Boudin away. Amy says she doesn’t care about the bits and pieces but she’s afraid Marigold has designs on more. On Brian, in fact. She might marry him. She came back to the house, to help to sort out Louise’s things, she said. Luckily, Hugh sent her off again, saying her presence was inappropriate. She left, with Brian promising her that they’d go out to the house in Provence as soon as things were settled. He said this in front of Hugh and Amy.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Patrick. ‘But suppose Brian gave her these things, aren’t they hers to keep? Legally, if not morally.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Lancelot. ‘And Amy said he seemed surprised that they’d gone, but he covered it up. Said maybe one of the carers had taken them, but t
hat wasn’t possible. They were above suspicion.’
‘Hm. The value of the jewellery would be obvious, but the Boudin? Would she have known about that, if she’s as ignorant as you imply?’
‘Maybe not just how valuable. But it was small and easily hidden.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Get them back and expose Marigold as a liar and a thief.’
‘I see,’ said Patrick. ‘Where do we start?’
‘Here,’ said Lancelot. ‘In Marlow. She lives here.’
As the two men walked away from the church, Lancelot told Patrick that Amy had tried to find out about Marigold’s past. She and Hugh had feared that the woman might intend to come to the funeral, but she had stayed away. Brian had commented on it, regretting her absence.
He’d gone mad, of course, Amy had said. The father she had loved and admired had not been equal to the demands of her mother’s illness, and he could not be wholly blamed for that; many people in his position would have faltered, but his conduct had been indefensible.
‘Amy did some checking,’ Lancelot said. ‘After that visit, when I met the woman, I suggested she should see if any of Louise’s contemporaries could remember Marigold at school, but she’d married – her name would have been different. Amy knew some of her mother’s old friends, and several came to the funeral. No one could remember a Marigold, but people sometimes use their second names or change them. Amy even looked out some old photographs – the tennis team, school groups, that sort of thing – but there was no one in the least like her in any. People do change, though. Age alters faces.’
‘Did anyone look on Brian’s computer to see if he’d been logging on to datelines?’ asked Patrick.
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